


In Times To Come

by mortalitasi



Series: into the forest [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Friendship, Gen, General
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 15:11:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2196531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortalitasi/pseuds/mortalitasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the debacle of Fort Drakon and the consequent liberation of the queen from Arl Howe's new castle, an unlikely friendship springs up between the Warden and the woman she rescued. </p><p>Unfortunately for Eamon, it's also the sort that is going to last a terribly long while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Times To Come

When the door swings aside to reveal Lyna Mahariel standing in her doorway in a tunic and breeches, Anora cannot say she is surprised.

She had been that when the Warden had laid down arms and submitted to Cauthrien with peace in her dark eyes and a quiet warning in her words.

"It’s me the teyrn wants," she’d said, ignoring Cauthrien’s hissed correction of  _the lord regent!_ "Let my companions pass and I will go with you without protest."

Anora had expected more— perhaps a dramatic revealing or a proclamation of blame, some overdone speech about how the evil of Howe had been lifted and the lost gallantry of the hero of Ferelden could be reclaimed… but nothing had come except a decisive surrender. A surrender Anora would even dare to call sensible. She cannot recall the last time she used such a word in conjunction with anything else but herself. 

The Warden does not look like much. Shorter than Anora and slighter than a good many of the elves she’s ever seen, Mahariel does not sport any great beauty the sort of which bards sing about and drives commonfolk wild. She is pretty, Anora supposes, striking rather than sweet, her colors earthy and warm— the kind of face you’d expect something like “no” to come from. Anora has not dared hope for a coworker. Too many hopes an idealistic leader make, and Cailan had been living his life in the clouds enough for both of them. 

Now he is dead and she is still standing here, and neither Howe nor her father has managed to stop her, and the Warden may just be the last piece in this bloody puzzle that everyone seems to be trying their damnedest to inhibit her from completing. And in here there are no pretenses, no veiled polite jabs, no need to sugar her words to make them palatable for Eamon, and Mahariel seems to stand a little taller outside of his shadow. 

"Your Highness," the elf says curtly, giving a short bow. 

"I suppose Eamon sent you," Anora returns, the words slipping out before she can stop them. "Stake out your territory, discover what I am… what I want."

Mahariel raises one pertly arched brow at her. “His lordship has a great deal many of ideas I had no part in putting in his mind. With all due respect— your Majesty— I am only civil to him for Alistair’s sake.”

The woman doesn’t mince words, does she? It reminds her of her father, able to say the most cutting of insults while still retaining perfect decorum. Her  _father_. This will end with him dead, won’t it? Maker. How things have changed. She feels a burning rise to her eyes but blinks it away. 

"Does Eamon know of your faith in his abilities?" Anora says instead, turning to face the mantelpiece and the crackling fire. Erlina always did make the best fires. 

"I… do not yet think he believes I can form an opinion of my own," the Warden says from behind her, the strangely accented nuances of a Dalish speaking Common sounding odd to her ears. "He has decided for himself that some things are as they are not. What it may mean for him, I cannot say." The elf stops and coughs. " _Abelas,_  your Excellence, I speak far too freely.”

 ”I would assume that was an apology,” Anora is remarking as she turns again. The Warden still has her eyes leveled. She crosses her arms over her chest, tilting her head as though she expects Anora to say more, the dusky chestnut of the skin at her collarbone peeking through the neck of her tunic. Perceptive, then, too. “It of no import. Speak as freely as you might want. I wish it. Platitudes have no place where women work.”

Now the Warden smiles, all edges and sharp elven teeth. The queen is reminded of a stoat, the likes of which always escape hunting parties and hounds no matter the number, always living beyond the chance of joining their brethren on a sling hanging from the side of some nobleman’s saddle.

"Then, your Highness— Anora— let us speak plainly," the Warden says easily, leaning back against the wall. Her bound hair slides from her shoulder to rest upon the breast of her tunic, gleaming brown and red in the firelight. She must have found some time to clean herself after returning from Fort Drakon, Anora thinks. Dressed properly she would make an impression on the more amenable of the nobles, elf or no. 

Of course, if the nobility were a more open-minded selection of creatures, ones not driven by petty envies and superstitions, Anora would not have to make half of the plans she is sure she will have to before the Landsmeet can be called to session. Unfortunately, they are just that, as they have always been, in her time and her father’s before her, and it must be dealt with. 

"For now, well or ill, Eamon listens to you," Anora continues, linking her hands together and letting her fingers weave as she talks. "And with good reason. But come the Landsmeet, when our bids are clear and your intention to keep Alistair out of royal proceedings is felt more keenly, he will no longer keep up this mummer’s farce he is so fond of— and unpleasant as he is, he will make a formidable enemy. You will need my support then, as I will need yours. Have I made right of the situation?"

There is only a momentary gleam of shock in the Warden’s gaze before the smile comes back and she laughs, the sound too merry for what they are discussing. 

She looks positively amused when she asks, “My lady, are you proposing an  _alliance_?” 

And this time, Anora smiles back. “That is exactly what I am proposing.”


End file.
